13 #3
But they don’t want to hear that. They don’t care about that.
“We like you,” Langley says, taking my stunned silence as his opportunity to keep vomiting verbally. “You’re a good fit for our little Tucker. And we want to help you, that’s all.”
I glance at Mrs. Bradshaw, the fake blond with far too much Botox and far too few brain cells. She’s scrolling on her phone, entirely absent from our conversation and in no way going to stand up for her fellow woman. I’m struck with a sudden pity for her and for the situation she’s caught in.
Bradford leans back, grinning, lacing his fingers and resting them on his gut. “Now, Lang, don’t treat her like some prized cattle,” he says, shockingly coming to my defense. “Have you given any thought to selling it?”
“Selling the inn? It’s not even mine to sell,” I reply.
“Not yet,” Tucker adds, and I pierce him with my glare. “What? It’s yours. Well, at least partly.”
I shake my head, disgusted that he’d bring that up and wishing I’d never told him. My skin burns, like I’ve been dragged over asphalt—the asphalt beneath the bus Tucker just threw me under. I try to hide my aggravation behind a long sip of wine.
“Selling would free you up to do other things,” Bradford suggests. “Tucker’s career is taking off. You two could travel. Start fresh wherever he could take you.”
Tucker nods, wrapping my hand in his, stroking my skin with his thumb. “It makes sense, Maxy. You’ve been stuck here a long time. Too long.”
Stuck. The word hits like a slap and bothers me more than anything this family has said to me so far. And that’s saying something.
Just then, my phone vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket and read the text.
Mitch
The plumber’s coming tomorrow to replace all the toilets. Do you think Mabel will throw a party?
His text lightens my mood and reminds me of Mabel wandering the halls, smiling as if she’s lost in the memories of her late husband.
Of how the sunrise hits the back veranda every morning.
Even how the boys and I used to visit Grandma Adams on cold winter days and hang out in the parlor, sipping hot chocolate.
I think of Mitch sitting in that tiny bathroom last night, his face full of foam, his eyes full of desperation, insisting, ‘It’s not dying, it just needs some love.’
I picture how he looked at me this afternoon—that is, when he dared to look at me—and I wonder if I read it all wrong. The sadness in his eyes; it’s possible that wasn’t anger or resentment. Maybe it’s more.
A fact I haven’t appreciated until now is that Mitch has never once suggested selling the inn and moving on. He’s tried to talk me out of it. He didn’t tell me I was wasting my time. He believes in it. And in me.
All at once, I’m overwhelmed by a wide range of emotions from my day washing over me.
“Wherever Tucker wants to go, that’s his choice,” I say. “But I’m not selling. And I’m not leaving Oakwhite.”
The table goes quiet, and they all stare at me, their shocked, macho, condescending glares making me laugh. Langley shakes his head with an obvious eye roll, but Bradford smiles, tilting his head as if I’ve said something cute. “Sweetheart—”
I raise a finger to silence him. “The name’s Maxine, not sweetheart. And before you go on some tangent about me being too pretty to understand the basics of business, or whatever completely inaccurate and sexist remark you’re about to make, let me repeat: I’m not selling.”
Tucker sighs. “Sorry, Dad. Maxy has a very stubborn side. But sometimes she needs a reminder that not everything is a battle.”
If looks could kill, I’d have just set Tucker on fire.
He didn’t call me passionate or committed. He called me stubborn.
Something in me finally snaps. Nothing dramatic. I don’t hurl my plate across the room, though I sort of want to. It’s just a clean, barely noticeable pop, as if a door has opened, and it makes me feel lighter.
“What I need, Tucker, is support,” I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. “Which obviously won’t come from people like you. People who keep telling me the thing I care about the most is a waste of time.”
Langley chuckles awkwardly. “Wow, this escalated.”
“Shut the fuck up, Langley,” I snap, then give him my own smarmy wink.
Tucker looks horrified. “Maxy, you’re taking this way too personally.”
I shove my chair back. “You’re right, I am. I should have known better. Thanks for the food.” I give them a salute, then leave, feeling surprisingly steady. Tucker calls my name, but he doesn’t follow. And it’s so much better this way.
As I walk out into the evening, a sharp and unexpected realization hits. My problem wasn’t dating the bad boy. I don’t need to be with someone who looks good on paper. Especially not when they want to mold me into something that fits their life.
I need someone who looks at what I’ve done with pride. At how I’ve kept the inn from shutting down, and says that it all matters. That says I’m important and that what I want is too.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel completely irrational for wanting that.